


Thief

by todisturbtheuniverse



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 14:39:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1902819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todisturbtheuniverse/pseuds/todisturbtheuniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Shepard was eighteen, she picked the wrong pocket.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thief

Her mark was a guy in his late thirties. Looked put together—nice haircut, quality clothes. Rare to get that type down in the gutters of Earth. She followed him through the market, waiting for a moment when the crowd would be thick enough to lift his credit chit without notice.

The low burn of guilt in her gut was almost silent. He’d hardly notice the loss, probably, and besides, she’d eaten nothing but stale bread and nutrient paste for the last week. If she never tasted that grainy combination again, it would be too soon.

A group of teenagers swarmed into the market, thickening the crowd. She slipped through them, closing the distance between her and her mark.

As soon as she went for his pocket, though, his hand closed around her bony wrist. She yanked, trying to escape his hold, but instead of shouting for the half-asleep guard in the corner of the market, he hauled her out of the crowd and into an alley.

How embarrassing. She hadn’t been caught in years.

He didn’t say anything, so neither did she. She didn’t look directly at him, trying instead to find an escape route, but unless she wanted to leave her hand behind…

"Lieutenant Anderson," he said at last. "Alliance Navy. And you are…?"

She glanced up, eyes narrowed. “Like I’d tell you,” she scoffed.

"Nice bruise," he commented, looking at the shiner she’d picked up a few days ago. Her eye was still tender. Maybe  _that_ was why she’d miscalculated so badly. “How old are you?”

"Old enough to know better," she replied, twisting her hand experimentally. No dice. "If I say sorry, will you let me go?"

He disregarded this. “Are you any good with that?” he asked, nodding to the pistol on her hip.

She rolled her eyes. “The best,” she said, her false bravado bitter.

He just looked at her, eyes narrowed, considering. Sizing her up, maybe. She went back to plotting escape routes through the dirty fringe of her hair. Down the back of this alley, over the trash bins, over the wall; through the open door fifteen feet to her left; back out through the mouth of the alley into the market, lose him in the crowd—

"Do you want to get off the streets?" he asked, and what kind of question was that?  _Everyone_ wanted to get off the streets. She didn’t know a single street rat who wouldn’t rather sleep in a bed than under folded cardboard, but the distance between Point A and Point B was insurmountable.

She knew. She’d tried.

"And go where?" she snapped. "Jail?"

"How could you make up for your past behind bars?" Before she could even try to answer that, he pushed on. "There’s another option. Join the Alliance."

She snorted. “Are you so hard-up for recruits that you’re drafting petty criminals?”

He let go of her wrist. She should have taken the opportunity to bolt, but instead she stood there, hesitating, while he picked up an empty, dirty bottle from the gutter.

"I’m going to throw this," he said, turning toward the back of the alley—that wall she’d failed to escape over. She could knock him out, now, while his back was to her, but she didn’t move. "And you’re going to shoot it."

She drew her gun. He threw; she shot. The bottle exploded over the back of the alley, showering a rain of glittering glass over the trash cans.

"How old are you?" he repeated.

This time, she answered. “Eighteen.” A stupid hope was unfurling in her chest. “I think.”

"Do you have a record?"

"Never got caught. Well, not since I was a kid. Doesn’t count, right?"

"You got a reason to say here?"

"No," she said. "But why would they want me?"

"They’re not too picky. You’re human. You’ve got a good eye. Get you eating more, you might even be strong enough to hold your own."

She folded her arms over her chest. “Why’re you helping me?”

He gave this some thought, brushing the dust from his hands.

"I don’t come back to Earth that much," he said finally. "Every time I do, though, I see kids like you. Starving, petty criminals. On the streets because someone didn’t care enough, and the system failed them. A lot of ‘em don’t want to hear what I have to say. They’re fine with their lives, and that’s that. But some want out." He considered her, his dark eyes serious. "It won’t be easy. It’s a hell of a commitment. But you could do some good."

"I’ve done a lot I’m not proud of," she muttered, a knee-jerk confession she felt compelled to offer.

"That could change."

She’d never been so scared in her life. Hope was a dangerous thing—a terrible thing. She would hurt so much more when this all crumbled to dust, when the recruiter looked at her scrawny arms and turned her down, when some paper pusher demanded documents she didn’t have.

But she found herself agreeing, anyway, because she was an idiot—always had been. “Okay,” she said, expelling the word in a rush of air. “Okay. Where do I sign up?”

"Lunch first," he said. He smiled, and it transformed his face into something soft, kind. "On me. Want to tell me your name now?"

She paused, thinking of the alias she’d used for years, and shed it. “Shepard,” she said. “Just, uh, Shepard.”

"Well, Shepard." He offered her his hand. "It’s nice to meet you."


End file.
